He is not what his father had been, nor idealized what his mother had dreamed of him, but he was certainly better off for both. Cain had been a herdsman, Berit had deified the love of a single stallion above all else. Love had been short lived for Enoch, for both of them and especially for his little brother Sinai. He had faded away like the darkness he was in the flesh. He drifted and faded until there was nothing left of him except his memory. He had not despised them, had not been jealous or bitter, but he had seen their end coming - the world had never been one to be kind to those bent on love conquering all.

So he finds himself washed ashore - his call not precisely answered, but not precisely missed - as he began to filter into the trees parallel to the shoreline. His golden eyes pivot to his right, his body following suit soon after. They must have washed up the same time he had done - only further down in the current of the sea. "Hello, if you're lookin' for the king, m'sorry to say you're in for disappointment, 'cause I ain't him." The golden bodied stallion says offhand, bringing his ears to flick in two separate directions when a sound filtered from deeper within the foliage than he had managed yet to venture.

Rilke makes just as glorious an image as the other washed-up stallion and being that Enoch may have presence but he was shorter than the two of them, he backs his hind end up to better view them both. Projected strength did not mean a delusional stallion - only that he knew and was confident in the place and space he inhabited. He could hold his own, he was strong and capable, but he would need to work for any inch he’d take from the larger two before him.

"Greetings, I am Rilke, lead of these lands. What are your names? And what is your business?" Rilke asks them, confident enough in himself that Enoch chooses to ignore the initial glimpse he’d seen of Rilke sizing them up. "Enoch." It is a simple duo of syllables, his gold eyes sharp and starkly contrasting the rest of him, even when the sun struck beams across the limitless seeming black and revealed the blackened dapples of his sooty gene. "Quiet, Peace." His business is stated as simply, his deep bass voice rumbling more like thunder than a nicker as he extends his nose in greeting with a dulled gleam to his gaze. If Rilke had been of a bad temper, he’d have been less soothed by the greeting. His eye instead turns to the other male with the clear tilt of his body position implying if Osmanthus was intending to bring trouble, there were now two in the way of such a thing.

Not that the other had seemed any more prone to fuss than himself, but he always did perform his way through life on the premise of actions speaking louder than any words he might speak.